The Best Things Come In Threes
by Emerald Embers
Summary: It's the end of the world as they know it, and Crowley has to rush through his bucket list. Crowley/Pollution/Famine, Crowley & Aziraphale friendship


Honestly, given how the last apocalypse that wasn't quite an apocalypse came about, Crowley had expected something a bit more... spectacular. Raining fish, kraken rising from the deep, war between Heaven and Hell, all that.

Okay, so the world hadn't technically ended _yet_, but where was the drama beforehand? The omens and visions and general getting people spooked before the main event?

All in all, it was pretty disappointing to be sitting in the park, not sure whether it'd be less boring to feed or drown the ducks, and have a laptop materialise at his side with that bird off Absolutely Fabulous crooning "You've got mail".

_"No subject:_

_World ending. Some little fuckers in Japan had a cult that worked. Who knew?_

_See you in three days._

_- B_

_P.S. Bring truffles or you're on admin duty when you get down here."_

Bit of a let down to be perfectly honest, but it looked pretty much like this apocalypse wasn't avertable. For starters, a cult in Japan meant divine influence probably had little to do with the world ending this time around, and more importantly, Crowley had no intentions of going over there. He'd bumped into a holidaying Oni once, didn't particularly feel like repeating the experience. Creepy bastards.

.

So, that left the all-important issue of; what was he going to do in three days? He'd never really planned for a relaxing end of the world, but given it sounded like he could do sod all now, may as well enjoy his last up here.

Visiting Aziraphale was the initial thought for planning out at least one evening's worth of activities - the angel might be a nuisance but he was the only decent drinking partner Crowley had, and Crowley had plenty of ideas for how to indulge in excess and gluttony - but the moment he was on the same street as Aziraphale's latest 'shop', he very swiftly found himself ducking out of sight.

Pretty much everyone else on Earth would glance at the acne-ridden, bespectacled, checked shirt wearing boy heading into Aziraphale's store and think nothing of it, but pretty much everyone else on Earth was not Crowley. Crowley didn't quite recognise the body but he certainly recognised what it was hiding; didn't take much of an effort to spot Gabriel in disguise. Still blazing away, ethereal, beautiful, completely lethal if you were of a demonic persuasion.

And hot. Oh, so very hot.

Crowley definitely resented Heaven keeping most of the seriously hot angels to itself because for all the talk about Lucifer being the most beautiful of all God's angels, to be perfectly honest, that was mostly just good PR. Sure, Lucifer was _alright_ - a bit better than alright, probably eight out of ten - but he wasn't scorchingly gorgeous like Gabriel, and Crowley liked to think he had good taste in most areas.

Still, Gabriel could only be admired from a distance. Preferably a large distance. The larger the better. And Crowley wasn't suicidal; certainly, he could probably take Gabriel on in a fight, but that still meant potentially _losing_ and he wasn't so into that, especially when he might not get a new body before the world had ended, and what use would it be then?

Talking to Aziraphale would have to wait.

Which meant moving onto the second major point on his "things to do before the world ends" list.

.

In practise, a threesome took a bit more coordination than Crowley would have thought and thus definitely lost a few merit points for that. The _idea_ certainly surpassed regular one-on-one sex, but still.

That aside, he couldn't complain much; he'd had two main options - going out seducing humans which, with his elite skills, felt a little like coercion - or getting hold of the filthiest person he knew* and enlisting their help.

Sex with Pollution was A Good Thing as long as it was just kept to sex and not _too_ much conversation. Any abstract had a certain single-mindedness and that could be distracting and/or distressing at the worst of times. Pollution was pretty damned good at just sex; he was dirty, filthy, and generally had a talent for coming up with ideas so vile but delicious that any demon would be jealous of the creativity.

Famine was not someone Crowley particularly appreciated despite the impressively austere facial hair. But a threesome was a threesome, and with so little time to get anything organised, he couldn't complain too much.

Even if the bearded one had a selfishness in bed that certainly fitted his name, he seemed adept at drawing interesting sounds out of Pollution and that was something to behold.

And besides, Pollution wasn't the type to give a damn about sloppy seconds.

.

Well, that was something struck from the list; time to move onto something he had longed to do for what felt like eternities despite the blight in question having been around for a fraction of Crowley's years on Earth, even if it did mean having to hop on a plane which was a particular form of torture Hell would have taken pride in if they'd had anything to do with inventing it.

It took little to inspire fangirls.

And, really, giving them all spiky heels, handbags, accessories, it wasn't so far-fetched even if the spiked accessories were a little more towards the alternative end of music than appropriate for young girls who had somehow managed to keep a band that tortured _Fly Me To The Moon_ into a ballad.

Oh, they had deserved it.

Okay, when the least popular member fell over, got trampled, and things became particularly messy he probably should have felt guilty.

But eh. That was an angel's job.

Speaking of angels, Crowley could not say he had expected to be interrupted during a torture session involving said boy band's manager, a bath in cheap children's glitter and a mix CD of classic love songs on repeat; least of all to be interrupted by his mobile receiving a text.

Given his mobile had not actually been used since acquisition, lacked a sim card, and had never been charged, it was something of a feat and Crowley had to wonder at the angel's finally grasping a form of modern technology despite the alternative method of use.

"_SORRY DEMON DEAR I CAN NOT FIND PUNCTUATION BUTTONS OR TURN OFF CAPITALISED LETTERS ON THIS OH WELL WILL YOU COME AROUND I HAVE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU EVERYWHERE ANYWAY GOODBYE PS WHAT DOES IT MEAN WHEN THE PHONE STARTS COUNTING DOWN LETTERS AGAIN AND SAYS TWO_"

Crowley smirked, went to resume his fun with the manager - it was impressive what happened to eyeballs when glitter got into them - when the phone received another mysterious, miraculous text.

"_NEVER MIND ABOUT THE NUMBER I THINK I HAVE WORKED IT OUT NOW BUT PLEASE DO COME AROUND_"

Well. There was only so long one could watch torture, after all, before it got tedious.

Crowley washed the glitter off his hands - one thing that could be said for children's glitter over craft glitter, it actually came off and stayed off in water - before texting back that certainly, tomorrow was good, punctuation was not a necessity for texting, and could Aziraphale avoid entertainment news channels for the next few days.

Had not entirely expected a return text of "_WHAT DAYS AND PUNCTUATION SHOULD NOT BE OPTIONAL UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES_".

Well, at least that confirmed two things; that Gabriel's visit had nothing to do with Heaven preventing the latest apocalypse, that Aziraphale knew the score, and that Aziraphale's anal tendencies with regards to grammar had every intentions of lasting to the end.

Confirmed three things, then.

.

Although a last dinner at the Ritz certainly had an air of gluttony and excess about it, Crowley had expected to spend the last night he was guaranteed to be wandering around on Earth up to something that was decidedly and immeasurably sinful.

Curled up on a very comfortable, evidently lived-in sofa, with a plate of hobnobs, a cup of tea perfected by centuries of practising brewing skills, and enjoying some of Spielberg's best on a television that wasn't even high definition had not featured on his 'to do' list.

Curled up with his feet in the angel's lap and watching Aziraphale reacting to seeing the Brachiosaur rearing onto its back feet for the first time had not featured on his 'to do' list either. It wasn't particularly sinful or naughty or evil. It was barely impolite.

But seeing the old softy who wasn't actually any older than him despite the relative physical appearances of their bodies getting quite choked up at what Crowley by now thought a technically impressive but still flawed scene definitely rated highly on the memories he would be taking back to Hell with him list.

"Good job I didn't start you off on Schindler's List," Crowley mused, wondering if he should stop leaning his head on his right arm before it went numb, decided he was too comfortable to move any body part not directly connected with the process of feeding him biscuits and tea. "If a fake of a fake animal gets you teary I think Mr Neeson would have you flooding London."

"Before you complain about my sensitivity I would recall a certain incident last time we walked past a television store."

"Television store? Argos is a _shop_, Aziraphale, not a storage space like your 'business'. Besides, the Shawshank Redemption does not count," Crowley grumbled. "As if you know anything about escaping repression, anyway. When did that upper lip of yours last move? 1945?"

"I might have to rethink that foot rub if you're going to be snippy," Aziraphale replied, and that had Crowley shutting up swiftly. He wasn't sure when Aziraphale picked up the skill - was less sure if he _wanted_ to know - but armed with nothing save almond oil and a towel the angel could do obscene things to mostly human feet.

Mostly.

Hiding little details that didn't quite fit the image - little leftovers from being a serpent, mostly - wasn't much of an effort most of the time, but it was one he was only too happy to quit making in private and, lately, around the angel too.

He'd made efforts of another sort before, but despite the image, Aziraphale did seem to have the sexless trait angels were meant to possess down pat. Not that much of a pity; if Lucifer was an eight, Aziraphale probably sat comfortably around four or five. He wasn't unpleasant to look at but he certainly wasn't aiming anywhere towards 'stunner'.

Probably a good thing, really. Hell called a lot of things into doubt, but given Aziraphale had let Crowley be part of his life for something other than doing his duties as an angel despite an apparent lack of attraction, it left Crowley with something he would be taking with him to wherever the world went when it was over.

Crowley was a demon, enjoyed being a demon in so far as one could ever enjoy that, enjoyed freedom and tempting and sin and not having to sing all the damned time, but being around humans for so long meant catching some of their contagious insecurities.

It was pretty sweet knowing he was the only demon heading to the end of the world who could say an angel liked him _after_ the fall.

.

- The End

.

* In this case, literally.


End file.
